


the day that we'll watch the death of the sun

by malevon



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, Temporary Character Death, based on art, rating is for some mildly descriptive violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27850202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevon/pseuds/malevon
Summary: they find daisy. it doesn't go as planned.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	the day that we'll watch the death of the sun

**Author's Note:**

> this is based on the absolutely beautiful and heartwrenching art by @speakerunfolding on tumblr, which can be found here (https://speakerunfolding.tumblr.com/post/624716815117991936/me-hiatus-is-fine-i-will-think-about-other) and here (https://speakerunfolding.tumblr.com/post/627833892182867968/the-end-of-hiatus-has-me-once-again-terrified-of). man i just wanted to write smth a little rough lmao as if i dont do enough of THAT

Martin didn’t know Daisy all that well.

Beyond knowing her as the scary cop who had interrogated him, and beyond knowing her as the scary cop that he had eventually figured was the one that had tried to slit Jon’s throat, and beyond knowing her as the person Jon had recklessly dove into the Buried for (and if Martin hadn’t been so damnedly disconnected at the time, he most certainly would have been jealous at the fact that Jon had thrown himself into the physical manifestation of a Fear just to save someone. Oh, how the times had changed.), he simply didn’t know that much about her. He knew that she had been Jon’s confidant, of sorts, when he was… indisposed. 

He didn’t know Daisy that well.

So he feels little remorse, little hesitation, little regret when he _screams_ at Basira to _take the fucking shot_ because _apparently_ what-used-to-be-Daisy appears from nowhere—

 _They’re walking, Basira taking the lead, in complete silence. Martin takes Jon’s hand in his own and silently revels in the fact that they seem to be some semblance of equals now, Basira leading the way on Jon’s guidance, walking side by side, both equally (well, maybe not_ quite _equally) clueless. Besides being covered in Trevor Hebert’s gore, and besides the panic attack he had suffered through earlier after the shock of having his life balanced on a literal knife edge, it’s… not terrible, actually._

 _It hadn’t been terrible, which was a small victory, in Martin’s eyes, until Jon stops dead and looks at Martin with nothing but absolute_ terror. 

_“She’s here,” he says, voice quiet and horrified. “Martin—“_

_And she bursts from the brush, and Martin screams, and Basira whips around, and Jon is_ gone _and Martin reaches for him and—_

—and clamps her jaw around Jon’s middle, dragging him away like a piece of fresh meat. 

Basira is _hesitating._

Martin ignores the fact that Jon is _silent_ and tries to wrest the pistol from Basira’s iron grip, because it’s _abundantly_ clear that Daisy isn’t going to let go anytime soon and he just doesn’t have _time_ , there’s no _time—_

“ _Martin_ , you have to _stop,_ I can’t—“

“ _Basira, take the damn_ —“

“I _can’t!_ Not with you—with Jon—“

He grits his teeth, feeling the familiar adrenaline rush again, and when had he been so desperate? 

“She’s _getting away_ , Basira, _fuck—_ “

“ _Martin, move!”_

Martin makes one more grab at it. 

If she won’t take the shot, then he will.

Basira pulls back.

The pistol rings out, and falls from both sets of hands.

Martin, instinctively, drops to his knees, covering his ears with trembling hands, the ringing in his head drowning out any sort of coherency he could possibly squeeze from what just happened. 

It takes a few moments—the blast had apparently executed any remnants of Martin’s thought processes, whatever was left after watching Jon get literally—

_Jon._

_JonJonJon_

He stands immediately and finds that _stood up too quickly, damn it_ Daisy must have, must have taken him somewhere, _where did the bullet go_ somewhere that isn’t in the immediate vicinity. A quick once-over of the surroundings doesn’t show any sign of Daisy but there is a _massive trail of blood oh Christ—_

Before he can check to see if Basira is okay, he’s following the red smear in the dirt, in the overturned leaves, in the snapped branches. It can’t have been far. It can’t have been far. He hears footsteps behind him and can only hope it’s Basira and doesn’t care if it’s not.

Martin’s eyes almost move right over him.

The noise that comes out of his mouth is not one he’s proud of.

It’s a high-pitched keen, a wail, that creaks out from between his grit teeth as he falls to his knees, again. The ground next to Jon is soaked through, and Martin crumbles into it.

“ _Christ_ ,” he barely registers from behind him, Basira. Something about going to find Daisy. Something about how she’ll be back. Martin doesn’t hear it.

Gathering Jon into his arms isn’t difficult. It never has been; at least, not since Scotland. Scotland is the furthest thing from Martin’s mind at the moment. His thoughts are a mixture a myriad a mess of _blood blood Jon’s blood is he breathing? Does he even have to breathe? Is his heart beating? Does his heart even have to beat?_ Questions that Martin had already answered for him somewhere in the recesses of his mind but _god_ he’s always been so rubbish at organizing things, that’s what Jon used to say, they joked about it once—

“Jon?” Martin tries his voice and finds it pathetically cracked. With one hand, he tries to wrap as much of his arm around Jon’s middle as he can; his torso is lined with a crescent moon of teeth marks, and Martin swears he can feel the blood coming for the wounds, still warm, even through his gloves, his jumper. He tries to put pressure on as much of Jon’s body as he can. Nearly wraps himself around the smaller man. _Useless_. 

With the other hand, Martin supports the back of Jon’s head, keeping him tilted forward, knocking their foreheads together, something that he’s—he’s grown so used to. Creating a space that’s only theirs. Breathing in the same air Jon is breathing out. There’s no oxygen here. Jon’s face is pale, his eyes shut, his skin covered in dirt and grime and _blood and blood and blood_ —

“Jon. Come on. Come back, love. Please. I know you’re in there.”

A cold hospital room with blanched while tile and the oppressive silence hanging from the ceiling, no beeps, no whirrs, no in-and-out of breath, nothing pale hands stillness.

Martin cards his hand through Jon’s matted hair, his fingers getting caught in the tangles that Jon would normally allow him to fiddle with until they fell free. He stares at Jon’s closed eyelids, something that he hadn’t seen in quite some time, not since they slept together, in the same bed, sharing the same space—heaven only knows how Jon could not keep his eyes closed for more than a few seconds, whether it be due to the Eye’s influence or simply Jon being… Jon, perpetually unable to let himself relax. He’s so relaxed, right now, muscles limp and boneless in Martin’s grasp. 

If it’s possible, Martin tries to bring Jon in closer; put more pressure, lean over further. A shield. _Step carefully, Martin_ , he’d said, not an hourweekmonth ago. _The Hunt feeds on fear, more than the others, I suppose. They can… sense it, in a way._

Martin is afraid. But he’ll be damned if he lets one more thing come any closer. 

“Please. Please. Jon. Please.”

His begging, his imploring is coming in a steady stream, and Martin tries so so very hard to focus on—on _what_ , there’s nothing _here_ —anything besides the sensation of feeling Jon slip between his literal fingers. He couldn’t hold anything together. They were so close. They had reunited with Basira and they would find a way to fix Daisy and they were so close to London and they could have made it and the train of thought sends Martin into a panicked spiral more intense than the one he was already in because Jon is, Jon is _gone_ and he’s not _healing_ and he’s supposed to be fine, it was supposed to be _him_ that died, not, not Jon, never Jon who has survived everything but _this_. This… this can’t be it. It just can’t be. _He was supposed to die fighting Elias, if anything_ , a venomous, angered voice in his mind says. _Not to Daisy. Daisy, who he trusted. Daisy, who he had found Jon outside the cottage, mourning on one dusky, particularly foggy Scottish morning._

Martin finds his vision tunneling. His forehead is no longer against Jon’s. He’s staring at the ground. The ground is red. His breathing is rough. It’s coming in heaves. He might pass out again. He’s not even crying. Is he crying? He might be. He can’t feel it. Everything is numb. There has to be. Something. He can do. Has to be. Has to be. Has to be— 

Something appears in his vision and Martin very nearly lashes out. His grip tightens on Jon, awareness of the form in his arms suddenly hyper-present, because if anything is coming, if anything _else_ is coming for the famed, damned _Archivist,_ they’re going to have to get through one very, very volatile and anguished and _furious_ Martin Blackwood. 

It’s a hand. 

It rests on his cheek. 

Martin’s gaze darts downwards, and—

_“Jon, your, your eyes, they’re—”_

_“Oh, please, don’t even tell me. I don’t even want to know.”_

_“Are you sure?” Martin says, sitting down next to him, in between him and the window. Jon’s been looking out the window too much. The curtains always find a way to creep open, no matter how tightly Martin draws them. “It’s not bad, I promise. They’re actually quite beautiful.”_

_Jon, for all the horrors this poor man has endured, actually blushes. Martin’s heart soars. “Oh?” Then, carefully: “Tell me, then.”_

They’re green. They are so vibrant and green and they are the most beautiful eyes he has ever seen. 

“Hi,” Jon says, his voice nothing but a soft and wrecked whisper, barely there, but Martin hears it. He hears it. 

Martin beams, and then sighs, feeling the weight of the world fall from his shoulders. He’s shaking, he realizes, and to combat this, focuses only on bringing his head down, pressing a kiss to Jon’s forehead before resting his own in the same place. Jon is warm again. Jon is breathing. Martin isn’t sure if he has to.

“ _There you are,_ ” he says, the words wisping through his lips like a prayer.

For a moment, for one, beautiful moment, everything is fine. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! you can find me @malevon on tumblr or @mikecrewe for my tma sideblog =)


End file.
